


The Family's Business

by Burz1987



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate universe - Mafia, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burz1987/pseuds/Burz1987
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has been the bodyguard to local businessman - and Mafia Boss - Michael D'Angelo for ten years now. Sure, it's getting a little old, especially after Lucifer's rebellion and Sammy's defection, but it pays the bills. When Michael's cousin Castiel fights off a hitman, Dean is dispatched to protect him - just until the heat dies down. What starts as a much-needed vacation for the two men quickly turns into a fight for their lives as they are caught between warring crime families and an FBI manhunt. Meanwhile, Sam Winchester is dealing with life under Lucifer's thumb: increasingly dark business deals, his wife Jessica being watched, and considerable unwanted attention from Ruby - the boss's daughter. Together, they stumble upon secrets, conspiracies, and cover-ups that go back over twenty years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Failed Attempts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester is in the prime of his life. As bodyguard to Michael D'Angelo, the head of the Kansas City crime family, he is equally feared and respected. He makes more money than he can spend - some of it even legally. And he is over it. So when Michael's cousin Castiel fights off a hitman and Dean is dispatched to protect him, he sees this as a much-needed vacation. Unfortunately, it most certainly isn't.

_Dean paced just outside the ornately carved double doors of Michael’s study, muttering to himself. “All right Dean, you can do this. Just walk in there, tell him you’re done, shake his hand, and leave. It’s been fun, but now it’s time to move on. No harm, no foul.” He stopped his pacing, cracked his neck a couple times, and took a deep breath._

****

That had been two years ago. The day Old Man D’Angelo had died. Dean Winchester had been working up the nerve to quit his job as Michael D’Angelo’s bodyguard for months. But as soon as he had walked through those doors to Michael’s study, his resolve had evaporated. Gone was the young man with the bright eyes and the confident smile, the dark hair meticulously styled and the shirt impeccably pressed. In his place was a different man. A man with haunted eyes and a lost expression, with dark hair untouched by product and clearly ruffled repeatedly by perfectly manicured hands. The suit jacket was missing, the tie loose, wrinkles visible throughout the shirt. _Aw hell. What kind of douche quits on a guy like this?_

So Dean had quietly taken off his own far-too-expensive jacket, loosened up his own exact-same-shade-green-as-his-eyes tie, and rolled up his own sleeves - wrinkles be damned - and pulled up a chair across from his boss-slash-mentor-slash-friend. “So… what’re we drinking?”

Over the years, he forgot many of the details of the next few weeks, lost in the haze of stress from Lucifer’s defection, Sammy’s betrayal, Michael’s ascension to new Boss, Dean’s own promotion to Advisor. But he had never forgotten the relief in Michael’s eyes at that moment, the gratitude that someone had no interest in talking about it, in offering a shoulder to cry on. Simply being there had been enough, pouring a second glass of scotch, and sitting in silence for the next hour.

It had been an interesting two years, that much was true. The Family had grown, having replaced their losses from the war and then some. Their fortunes had grown accordingly, as they had expanded into various levels of government and new business ventures. Dean had seen his role change from personal bodyguard to a sort of Head-of-Security-slash-Mouth-of-Michael-slash-Confidante. And to be honest, he enjoyed it. He enjoyed interviewing the new muscle, overseeing their training. He enjoyed meeting with businessmen and politicians, staring them down and leaning on them. He really did. But a part of him was still stuck in that conversation outside Michael’s office two years ago. It was like a voice in the back of his head, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a shout, but never completely quiet.

So here he was again, psyching himself up to quit his job, to walk away from a business no one walks away from, to say goodbye to the man who had saved him and his family ten years ago. He ran his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. _Who are you kidding, you asshole? You’re not gonna do it. Not today, not tomorrow._ Dean exhaled heavily, muting the voice as best he could, putting off the conversation for the unspecified future. He slapped a cocky grin on his face, rolled his shoulders, and entered for the morning debrief.

Who he saw was neither the sunken, broken Michael of two years ago, or the coolly confident Michael that Dean had known for his entire adult life, but a Michael that was - thankfully - incredibly rare. The dark-haired man was pacing, honest-to-God _pacing_ , with his sleeves rolled up, practically yelling into his Bluetooth at Zachariah, gesturing with uncharacteristic fervor. As his dark eyes turned to Dean, they flared. Dean knew the man well enough to read the expression as “I am surrounded by incompetence, please save me.”

With a light chuckle, Dean reached out and took the headset off of Michael’s head. “Zach? Zach? Zach! Yeah it’s Dean. No, I won’t put him back, you’re done. You can talk to him later. Oh _I’m_ overstepping? Ok, well why don’t you come up here and tell Mike you think so? Or better yet, why don’t you come up here and tell _me,_ face to face? Yeah, that’s what I thought, asshole.”

Michael chuckled and shook his head ruefully. “You know he’s going to make your life miserable for that, right?”

Dean grinned, face lighting up with a childish sort of mischief. “Yeah well he’s welcome to try, but you’ve seen how well I respond to prank wars.” Michael had had a front-row seat to Dean and Sam’s last prank war, and vividly remembered the escalation from itching powder in boxers and Nair in the shampoo to IRS audits and SWAT raids. Restraint wasn’t one of either Winchester’s strengths. “So… uh… what was all that about?” _Great segue, Dean. Good job. Ugh._

Michael’s face fell back to the thunderhead from earlier. “There has been an attempt on the life of my cousin.”

“Uhhhh…?” Dean trailed off lamely. He ran through the (rather extensive) list of Michael’s cousins, second-cousins, and “cousins,” trying to figure out which might have warranted a hit being put on him or her. Practically the entire upper echelon of the Family was made of such cousins. “You wanna elaborate on that, Boss?”

“Castiel. My favorite cousin.” Cas? Dean had met the guy at the Company’s Christmas party right after joining up with Michael, an intense little accountant with poor social skills and the liver of a far bigger man. They had spent the evening avoiding social interaction with “the elite,” and snarking about them behind their backs - though Dean could never tell if Castiel was being intentionally funny or not.

“Lucifer?”

Michael nodded once, face growing angrier by the second. “Or one of his goons with their ridiculous demonic nicknames. Alastair, probably. Now, Dean, I know you’re not happy being stuck here,” Dean opened his mouth to interrupt, but Michael continued anyway. “No, I know you too well to deny it. And it’s okay. We can talk about it later, I promise. But for now, I want you to go check on Castiel, take him somewhere safe, and take a couple days to make sure he’ll be fine without you.

“Mike, if Lucifer is starting something, don’t you think I should be _here_? Protecting _you_ , mobilizing Security, communicating with our Associates?” Dean felt several emotions at the moment: shame that Michael had seen his unhappiness, relief that at least it was out there, guilt about the relief, fear that he wasn’t good enough to stay and do his job, anxiousness about Michael’s safety… it was a lot to process, and Dean realized that Michael was snapping fingers in his face to bring him back to the present before putting his arms on Dean’s shoulders and looking at him intently.

“Dean, I’ll be fine without you for a few days. Lucifer won’t come after me right away - if he comes after me at all. And honestly, I’ll feel better knowing that you’ll have your head in the game when you get back.” Dean flinched at the words, more at their truth than at their harshness. Michael’s face softened, before trying out one of his rare grins. “Besides, Castiel is The Money, we don’t want him getting into the wrong hands.” Cas was their man on the inside of the IRS - a Captain in fact, in charge of his own little garrison of “holy tax accountants.” Dean was always the one to read his quarterly reports, chuckling at the almost brutal efficiency of the language and the near-constant reminders that they could all be making more money if they did this or that (usually involving going legitimate and abandoning their lives of crime).

****

Half an hour later, Dean was in his Impala, a duffle of comfortable clothes packed in the trunk and a bag of junk food in the seat next to him. He cranked up his cassettes, revelling in the simple pleasure of driving his own car rather than being driven around in a limo. The roads heading out to the Kansas City suburbs where Cas lived were surprisingly clear, and Dean settled in to the classic rock and soft rumble of his baby’s engine. Before long he was out of the city limits, winding his way through neighborhoods of suspiciously similar-looking McMansions. _Freaking suburbs, man._ They always gave him the heebie-jeebies for some reason. Maybe it was the uniformity - no, the _con_ formity, the expectations and the… Whatever. That was neither here nor there. Finally, Dean pulled up to Cas’ monster of a house.

True, it wasn’t as big as some of the other houses in the area, but damn, did the little nerd really need that third story? Or a second wing? The mid-morning sun glinted off the perfectly manicured lawn, while a breeze blew the first breath of autumn across it. Dean shook his head as he marched up the path to the front door, thankful for the comfortable flannel and classic Winchester layers he only got to wear on lazy Sundays and the vacations he never took. At the looming double doors that would have dwarfed even Sammy - _seriously, what is it with rich people and double doors?_ \- Dean paused, looking for a doorbell. What he saw instead was a gigantic, ornate, golden lion with a knocker - _heh heh, “knocker”_ \- hanging from its mouth. He took it and knocked, wincing at the resulting boom. He was on the verge of knocking again - or maybe calling instead - when he heard a deep, exceptionally gruff voice from the other side.

“Go away.”

“Cas? It’s Dean. Dean Winchester. Mike - Michael - sent me to check on you.”

There was a long pause, during which Dean shifted uncomfortably. He felt exposed, surrounded by mansions and sports cars and the prying eyes of trophy wives. Finally, the door opened a crack, and Dean saw one bleary, brilliant blue eye and a truly magnificent sliver of bed head peeking out at him. “I’m fine. Now go away.”

“C’mon Cas, you and I both know that ain’t gonna happen. So, how about you let me in? I’ll - “ Dean looked Castiel up and down skeptically as he stepped up to the door, putting one hand on it and pushed lightly - “make you some breakfast, while you shower and pack.”

Castiel blinked owlishly at that, his brow furrowed as if trying to figure out where exactly he had gotten lost in such a short conversation. “Pack? Am I going somewhere?”

“We. We are going somewhere. Now, can you show me to your kitchen, or are we going to have this whole conversation in front of God and everybody?” Castiel considered him a moment more, intensity in no way diminished by a threadbare white tee and plaid pajama bottoms. He huffed before moving out of the way to admit Dean.

“Kitchen is through there. I have no idea what’s in the fridge. I am going to shower now.” And with that he padded away, disappearing up a curving marble staircase and into the west wing of the house.

Dean rolled his eyes and set out to find the kitchen, his stomach urging him on impatiently. As he passed through a spacious - _aka fucking huge_ \- living room, his eyes fell upon an equally huge bookshelf in total disarray. Upon closer inspection of the room, Dean noticed that everything was just so subtly off. There were a few scuff marks on the otherwise-spotless floors. Lamps and end tables were just a few degrees off-center, as though they had been jostled and hastily - though imperfectly - moved back. The attack must have happened here then. From what Michael had told Dean, Castiel had come back from his pre-dawn run, only to be attacked from behind by a large man with a garrote. He had managed to fight the man off, however, getting a bony elbow into the his gut and crushing the man’s nose with the back of his own head. Cas - the _accountant_ \- had then managed to flip the intruder over his shoulder before reaching into the end table’s drawer and calmly producing an “emergency gun.” The man had then scrambled away, leaving Castiel to call his cousin and relay the news in clinical detail, seemingly detached save for a slight tremor to his voice. Judging by the pajamas and slight glaze to Cas’ eyes, he had taken a painkiller or something and gone to bed right after.

Marveling slightly at the thought of this grumpy IRS employee - who had never even seen Rambo - fighting off a trained hitman, Dean found the kitchen at last. Cas’ refrigerator was, despite his warning, well-stocked, and Dean decided to fry up some bacon and try his hand at an omelette. He allowed himself to zone out a bit as he found his rhythm, moving about the gorgeous kitchen with ease and humming some AC/DC to himself. This was, after all, supposed to be his break from everything. Besides, it’s not like Lucifer would send a second hitman to the exact same place, mere hours later and in broad daylight.

“That smells… incredible.” Cas had wandered in silently, bare feet barely making any noise. He stood in the entryway to the kitchen, still in the plaid pajama bottoms from earlier - sitting dangerously low on slim hips - though he had abandoned the t-shirt completely. The angry red line from the garrote was now quite visible, and Dean winced at the memory of his own time on the receiving end of a wire. Cas’ bed head had been replaced with a damp, recently-toweled mess of its own. Dean rolled his eyes at the guy’s utter lack of modesty, and quickly returned his attention to the eggs in front of him.

“Yeah, and it’ll taste even better when you’re packed and ready. That, ” he pointed at the half-naked man with the spatula for emphasis. “don’t look ready to me.” Cas glanced down in surprise.

“Oh, of course. My apologies.” He was blushing furiously. Dean merely smirked before relenting.

“Oh no, It’s fine. You stay and eat, it’s not like we’re trying to flee the city or anything.” Okay, maybe “relenting” wasn’t quite accurate. By now, Cas was beginning to babble a bit, unsure whether to sit and eat his meal as quickly as possible or to rush upstairs and throw his things in a duffle.

“Sit,” Dean commanded. He smiled, attempting to put Cas at ease. The dude _had_ had a rough morning after all. “We’ve got time. Really.” And with that, he pulled out a chair for himself, and got to work on reaping the rewards of his own culinary labors. As they sat in companionable silence, Dean found himself unable to concentrate on the mental lists he was attempting to compile. The problem was that Castiel was making these _noises_ while eating. Practically pornographic noises. He could feel a flush creeping up his face, and God, when was the last time Dean Fucking Winchester had blushed? But rather than going down _that_ particular road, he simply cleared his throat pointedly. “We… uh… we really should get going soon though.”

Cas merely nodded, finishing his last strip of bacon and taking his and Dean’s plates and placing them in the dishwasher. As he padded out to go pack, Dean heard a gruff “Thank you for the meal,” and then he was gone.

****

It was nearly noon by the time Dean and Castiel were well and truly on the road. Cas had been practically neurotic in his packing, folding even his underwear meticulously, looking for garment bags, chargers, backup chargers, emergency cash, and two dozen other things Dean felt wholly unnecessary. “Dude, we’re going to South Dakota, not Siberia,” he had said as Cas pulled out multiple heavy coats, and who merely huffed in response.

Dean was in the process of finding I-29 when Castiel reached over and switched the stereo from “Cassette” to “Radio.” It took everything in him not to swerve into oncoming traffic. “Dude. What the hell? You do NOT turn off Zeppelin! Not in my car! Driver picks the music, shotgun --” But Castiel wasn’t listening. Instead, he was looking at Dean with an apparently possible combination of patience and exasperation.

“I merely thought it prudent to determine the state of traffic. This - “ he gestured to map of the Midwest in his lap “- looks like it might be a rather long drive.” Dean glared back at him, determined to remain angry despite the logic behind the man’s actions.

“Okay, yeah, but still --” He was cut off once again, this time by an impatient shushing.

_This just in: it seems that local businessman and renowned philanthropist Michael D’Angelo was found murdered in his office this morning. The police have yet to release an official list of suspects, but a source within D’Angelo Distributions has informed us that surveillance tapes show none other than D’Angelo’s own Head of Security, Dean Winchester entering the office in an uproar and fleeing the scene earlier this morning._

Dean tried to listen to the rest of the report as it lauded Michael’s success as CEO and his many charitable projects in the local community, but he was having a hard enough time fighting off the tunnel vision and whooshing sound in his ears. He didn’t even notice Castiel’s furious face staring at him, silver handgun gleaming in the noon sun and pointing right at him. ** **  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ever fic, so please let me know how I could improve on future chapters!
> 
> Part of the Tuesday Two Podcast Hellatus Fanfic Challenge - aka a challenge to get creative and produce something during the depressing time that is Hellatus. Find us on Twitter @TuesTwoPodcast or listen on Soundcloud.com/tuesdaytwo


	2. First Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After hearing the accusations against Dean, a livid Castiel wants nothing to do him. But as Dean begins to explain himself - his past, his family, and how he met Michael, Castiel finds himself believing that the other man is innocent.

********

Eight hours ago, Castiel had been asleep. Six hours ago, Castiel had fought off a trained hitman. Four hours ago, Castiel had been asleep again. Two hours ago, Castiel had discovered Dean Winchester on his doorstep asking to make him breakfast. Right now, Castiel was struggling to keep his gun steady on Dean Winchester.

Michael was dead.

Michael, who had taught young Castiel how to shoot, the summer after James Novak, Sr. had walked out on his family. Michael, who had never questioned it when little Jimmy had requested to be referred to by his middle name from now on. Michael, who had helped Castiel drink a liquor store (more or less) after Anna’s death.

“Cas?” Dean was remarkably calm for a man with a gun pointed at him, years of experience no doubt to blame. “You wanna put that thing down for sec, buddy?”

Castiel glared all the harder at the diminutive. “Stop the car, Dean.” He forced that steely edge into his voice, the one that had given pause to boarding school bullies and hardened thugs alike over the years.

“Cas, man, we’re on the highway, I can’t just --”

“Stop. The fucking. Car.”

“Son of a - fine.” Dean pulled onto the shoulder before parking the Impala and pulling the key out of the ignition. “So, what’s the plan, boss?” Again with the stupid nicknames.

“I’m not your boss. You murdered your boss. Now get out of the car and zip-tie your wrists. I’m sure you have some in the trunk.” Castiel motioned for Dean to get out of the car as he himself exited, keeping his gun trained on the other man but hidden from the road by the Impala.

“Cas, we gotta talk about this, okay? I didn’t --”

“You can explain yourself to the police, Dean. I am not interested in anything you have to say.” Dean’s eyes flared wider as he was cut off yet again.The sun made them appear to spark. But he visibly soothed himself, apparently thinking better of yelling at the man with the gun.

“The police? You mean the police Mike had in his pocket? You really think they’re gonna let me get a word in?”

Castiel cocked the gun. “Give me the keys. Zip-tie your hands. And then get in the _fucking_ car.” He didn’t normally swear so much, but the situation seemed to warrant it. And it felt… cleansing.

Dean took a look at the gun, and then at the man holding it. He looked at the keys in his hand. And then he threw them into the forest behind them. In the split second Castiel’s gaze attempted to track them into the brush, more on instinct than anything else, Dean had whirled - a gun of his own appearing in his hands.

For a long while they stood there in silence among the trees next to the road, guns pointed at each other, eyes boring holes into the other man. After some time - Castiel had no idea how long - Dean seemed to come to some conclusion, and to his utter surprise, put his hands up. “C’mon Cas. You can’t really believe I killed Mike, can you? The guy saved my life.”

At that, Castiel cocked his head and squinted slightly, an involuntary response to the confusion he so often felt around others. “I… thought you were _his_ bodyguard. How…?” he trailed off lamely.

“No, not… this was before that.” Dean sighed heavily. “Can you put down the gun for a minute, please?” Castiel was thoroughly confused. Dean had had him in his sights, and he was by far the more experienced shooter. He could have killed or wounded him and driven off in the Impala before Castiel even blinked, and yet here he was, tossing the gun at Castiel’s feet, beginning to lean against his car. He looked exhausted; Castiel felt exhausted.

By increments he lowered the gun. “Explain,” was all he said, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt. Dean began to slump down to the ground, leaning against the tire as he settled in the dirt. “D’you know I had a scholarship?” Castiel blinked at the non-sequitur, growing tired of Dean and the way he kept confusing him. “‘S’true. Neither of my parents went to college. Dad died when I was four, in a house fire, and Mom… she had to work two jobs to support Sammy and me. She was a maid for the motel where we lived. They didn’t pay her shit, but let us stay for free, so I guess that’s something. And then she was a waitress in this 24-hour diner across the street. Her back and feet were always sore, and she had to have been tired all the time, but I never saw her cry, never heard her complain. And she always told me I could be anything, even though I knew it was Sam who was the smart one.

“So, I busted my ass trying to make her proud. Got accepted to KU, had some scholarships, took out some loans, had been saving up from working at my Uncle Bobby’s shop during the summers. I was all set to go.” Dean’s face had briefly lit up, pride at his accomplishment shining through.

“And then, on graduation day, my mom lost her jobs. Both of ‘em. Some dick named Crowley bought up the properties and tore ‘em down. I withdrew from KU that day, and went to work at the auto shop in town the day after that. Mom was pissed. But there was nothing she could do. Not now that we had to rent an apartment. Not with Sammy an actual genius, already thinking about Stanford someday.” Dean looked… wistful, as he imagined the shape his life might have taken had he gone to college, put himself first for once. Castiel felt his anger dissipating, his resolve weakening.

“That was my life for the next couple years: wake up early, work at the shop all day, take a quick nap, bartend all night. Eventually Mom got another job and forced me out, said I needed a place of my own, to have a life. I took the little apartment over the shop, and saved every dime for Mom and Sam.” Castiel lowered his gun all the way, feeling awkward. He had known Dean for years. Not particularly well, he supposed, but about as well as he knew anyone that wasn’t his immediate family. Or Michael. Dean had always talked of his family, those times they had… not “hung out,” exactly. Interacted. He loved them deeply, and took pride in his work. He found himself hoping the radio was wrong about this man.

Dean continued, oblivious to Castiel’s re-evaluating. “Then, about ten years ago, this guy gets towed into my shop. Tall guy, expensive suit, more expensive car. Says someone cut into his lane, he swerved, lost control in the rain, ended up in a ditch, axle cracked. I tell him I can have it done, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow, and that he’ll have to stay the night. He leaves, and I head over to work my shift at the bar.” Castiel actually smiles a bit at that. He remembers Michael’s car crash. Remembers his anger, his certainty that if his father did not murder him, he would force him to hire a driver for the rest of his life. Michael had worked himself into a veritable temper tantrum before Castiel had quietly recommended naptime and juice, as he had heard that those work wonders on cranky toddlers.

“I remember it was a rough night. Lots of drunk chicks ordering froofy drinks - probably a bachelorette party or something. I’m gettin’ groped every couple minutes. Then these redneck truckers show up. They see me, say they’ve heard about the ‘pretty-boy bartender’ in town, probably from other drunk redneck truckers. They try to buy me for the night, and I tell ‘em I don’t do that kind of thing. They get pissed, I get pissed, they get thrown out. Closing time comes and goes, and I’m locking up the bar to head home when these three guys jump me. Now, I can hold my own in a fight, but like I said, there’s three of ‘em, and back then they probably weighed twice what I did, each. So eventually, they have me on the ground, just kickin’ the shit outta me, when Mr. Fancy Pants shows up. He throws a few punches, gets ‘em off me for a sec, and then proceeds to help me get some royal payback.” Dean is grinning widely now, as if he weren’t recounting a story that certainly involved broken ribs, teeth, and countless bruises.

“Anyway, after we leave, we go to my place so I can patch the guy up. For some reason he refuses to go to a hospital, which is frickin’ stupid since he was obviously rich. He says his name is Michael D’Angelo, and I laugh, because, you know…”

“It sounds like the painter,” Castiel interjects.

Dean laughs, the first time Castiel can remember him doing so in years. Not since… since he asked if Castiel could arrange a surprise audit on Sam Winchester, three years ago. Something about payback and a “prank war.”

“That’s what he said! And I went with it, because I didn’t want this rich guy who just saved me from Deliverance, Part Two, to think his name reminded me of a Ninja Turtle!” Castiel had no idea why a movie sequel would have threatened Dean’s life, or how a turtle could possibly be a ninja, or what any of this had to do with Renaissance art. It must have showed on his face, because Dean laughed again. The sound was harsh, and loud, but exceptionally warm, and Castiel felt himself blush faintly. He settled on the ground next to Dean, leaning against the warm black metal behind him.

“So anyway, Michael tells me that after this whole fiasco, his father is going to insist on a bodyguard, which he has spent the last several years arguing that he didn’t need. And that’s when the pieces start to fall into place. The suit, the car, the name, the dad. D’Angelo. As in the crime family from Kansas City. But he tells me it’s strictly bodyguarding, not like… wet-works or whatever. And then he offers to triple whatever I’m making at the shop, plus benefits, stipends, bonuses, and a yearly raise.” Dean was gesturing emphatically, needlessly attempting to drive home just how appealing this would have been to a twenty year-old working two jobs. Castiel might not have been able to understand - not really - but he could certainly guess. And sympathize.

“I gave the guy a couple painkillers after I stitched him up, sent him to bed, and then sat on my couch all night long thinking about it. Didn’t sleep a wink. Then I got up, and made omelettes, exactly like I made this morning. He woke up, and I told him I would need one day a week to go back to Lawrence to see my family. And an accountant to manage Sammy’s college fund.” Castiel smiled widely and warmly at that, remembering the first time he met Dean, roughly ten years ago. It had been a Christmas party for the company. Michael had found Castiel _definitely not hiding_ in a corner of the crowded ballroom, nursing a glass of red wine. He was practically dragging along one of the best-looking men Castiel had ever seen - over six feet of green eyes and freckles and light brown hair and muscles, all in a perfectly-tailored tuxedo that had the accountant swallowing hard and blushing deeply. Michael had made introductions before leaving them alone, smirking in a way that said he knew everything his cousin was trying desperately not to think.

Their conversation had been professional at first, Dean describing his and his family’s financial situation, Castiel mentally filing it all away for later. But before long, the bodyguard was gushing about his little brother, face lighting up in a way that positively transfixed Castiel. From there, they proceeded to talk about their absent fathers, how uncomfortable they were around these people, and how they would much rather be eating a greasy burger from an equally greasy diner at the moment. Castiel found Dean easy to talk to, and Dean seemed to reciprocate. Thinking back on that party, and those that had followed each year, and the few other occasions they had interacted, he realized that Dean could not have killed Michael. He came back to reality to discover that the other man was still talking.

“-- And don’t you think it’s weird they put a hit on you? And then failed? I mean, no offense man, but if they were planning a war, don’t you think they’d have started with… y’know… me? Or Zachariah? Or Uriel, or Raphael? It seems like --”

“Like Lucifer was attempting to draw you away from Michael, yes. That does make sense. He knew Michael and I were close, knew he’d send his right hand man to… babysit me.” Castiel felt his eyes welling up against his will, guilt and loss and anger warring within him, threatening to overwhelm him. A small flask appeared next to him. Dean was pointedly not looking at him, respecting him enough to ignore his emotional state. After a moment - and a small swig or two of… scotch? - he had composed himself, and handed the flask to Dean.

The other man’s eyes met his, and held him there. “This isn’t your fault, Cas. None of it. You did great, okay? You fuckin’... you fuckin’ took out one of Lucifer’s goons. You survived. Don’t you dare go regretting that, you hear me?” Hearing such a gruff voice deliver such tender words was doing strange things to Castiel’s head, and stomach. “This is my fault. Mine. I left him there. I left him alone, and the bastards --”

Castiel turned, somewhat awkwardly against the Impala, and gripped Dean’s shoulder fiercely. He continued to bore holes into Dean’s eyes with his own, trying to force his own sudden conviction across to the other man. “No.” He supposed it wasn’t eloquent, but it was heartfelt, and that would have to do. “No,” he said again.

Dean looked back at him, pain evident in his green eyes. He tried to look away from Castiel’s blue ones, but Castiel would not let him. Finally, the pain was replaced with resolve, a determination the accountant knew - both personally and from stories - that was unmatched by anyone in the Family. “All right,” Dean said, taking the keys he had apparently only pretended to throw out of his jacket pocket. “Let’s nail these motherfuckers to the wall.” ** **  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the views and kudos! Let me know what you think in the comments! 
> 
> Part of Tuesday Two's Hellatus Fanfic Challenge. Find us on twitter @TuesTwoPodcast, on soundcloud.com/tuesdaytwo, or at tuesdaytwo.tumblr.com


	3. Compromises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Winchester hates his life. Sure, he has his amazing wife, Jess, and that's enough. But his parents are gone. Dean is gone. His days are spent watching Lucifer's spoiled daughter Ruby, worrying that Azazel's daughter Meg will hurt Jess, and occasionally destroying his soul with whatever work Lucifer forces on him. So when he hears the accusations about his big brother, Sam knows he needs to get the hell out of there and help Dean. He just has to figure out how.

_New details are emerging in the murder of Michael D’Angelo, the Kansas City CEO of D’Angelo Distributions and renowned philanthropist. Authorities previously believed that Head of Security Dean Winchester acted alone - presumably murdering his boss over a payment dispute. Now, however, they believe that D’Angelo’s own cousin, a Castiel Novak, may have also played a part. The two men appear to have absconded together and were last seen heading North. What exactly the nature of their relationship is remains to be seen, but a source within D’Angelo Distributions claims that the two were in fact romantically linked. More on this story later, but first --_

“This is fucking _bullshit_!” Sam yelled, as he turned off the television and threw the remote.

“Careful there, Sammy. You know how Daddy loves his toys.” Ruby arched her eyebrows and glared pointedly from across the room, a basket of french fries in her hands. Sam merely snorted and rolled his eyes. The days when he was one of Lucifer’s favorite toys were long gone. They disappeared the day Lucifer realized that he and Sam were never going to have the same kind of relationship that Michael and Dean enjoyed - that odd mixture of father/son, brothers-in-arms, and hero/sidekick. And Sam understood, he really did. He used to have that same relationship with Dean, just from the other end, and he missed it.

It was his own fault, really. He left for Stanford, visiting home less frequently with each passing year. He met Jess, fell in love, and called less and less. And then Mom had died in a fire, just like Dad had 20 years earlier. The police had said it was an accident, that the house was old, that coincidences happened sometimes. Sam had become a man obsessed, convinced that someone was to blame. He had skipped his law school interview, too busy searching Lawrence for clues and rumors as to what had really happened. And then Lucifer had shown up, promising answers - and vengeance. And money. Money for Jess to go to nursing school, for a house, for a family, and college funds and retirement and all that domestic stuff he had always wanted.

Dean, of course, had been pissed. Said he had dirtied up his soul to pay for Stanford, had done worse to save up for law school for Sam. Had forgone college himself, all for Sam. Always for Sam. And he had gone and thrown it away.

But Sam had done what he could to make it up to his brother. Dean had to admit that they made a formidable team. Fighting off rival interests in Kansas City. Intimidating local business people. Even researching politicians and civil servants to bribe and shmooze. They’d been good at it. Street smarts and book smarts. Brainy Brawn and Brawny Brains. Red Oni and Blue Oni. Sam had asked Dean to be his best man when he proposed to Jess. Dean had asked Sam how to legally adopt Lisa’s son, Ben, back before that whole thing had completely imploded.

Then the Old Man had died. It had been a long time coming; he’d been sick for quite a while. It had been years since he’d made any public appearances. But still. He had ruled the Family for years, running the competition out of town, seeding relatives into various strategic places - the IRS, KCPD, City Hall, liquor boards, state senate, even a few in Congress. His death created quite the void. A void that, apparently, he only trusted Michael to fill.

No one was really shocked. Even though Lucifer (or Luke as he had been called back then) was the Underboss - traditionally the successor - it was Michael who was Advisor, who held the Old Man’s ear. Michael had slowly transitioned the Family into more upscale business, turning away from drugs and basic protection racketeering to things like art smuggling and money laundering. So when Michael was appointed the new Boss, Luke got pissed. Said that if Michael was going to be Daddy’s good little angel, then he’d have to be the fallen one. So he drummed up his supporters - all of whom took Demonic names in solidarity - and staged a coup. It had been long. And bloody. There had been tons of collateral, to the community, the business, and to the Family itself. Ultimately, Lucifer and his cronies fled Kansas City and settled in St. Louis.

He hadn’t spoken to Dean since.

With a start, Sam realized that Ruby was looking at him, an expectant look on her face. Or was that worry? Or annoyance? Honestly, it was hard to read her sometimes. Or all the time. “What?” was all he could ask, pretty lamely.

“I _said_ , ‘You gonna answer those texts, or just keep staring off into space like a dumbass?’ But I guess you pretty much answered that question.” She plopped down next to him on the sofa, sitting closer than was strictly necessary, but no closer than she ever did. Sam attempted to move away as he dug in his pocket for his cell phone.

**Dean (5 mins ago): It wasn’t me.**

**Dean (4 mins ago): Seriously Sam, it wasn’t me.**

**Dean (2 mins ago): Dude.**

**Dean (2 mins ago): What the fuck, are you screening my texts?**

Sam’s face scrunched in confusion. He knew Dean hated it when people took forever to return texts, but seriously? His phone buzzed in his hand.

**Dean: Bitch.**

Then it all clicked. Dean was giving him an out. No doubt the police, or FBI, or whoever would be showing up soon, asking Sam if he knew where Dean had gone. And here he’d have proof that he and Dean were still very much estranged after a very public falling out two years ago. But he also called Sam a bitch, which he never did if he was actually angry.

“I uh… I’ll be right back, Ruby.”

“Gonna go talk to Dean, huh?” Ruby’s eyes were fixed on Sam, any hint of playfulness gone. “You know Daddy won’t like that.” Sam considered several options at that point - puppy dog eyes, lying, yelling. But Ruby could smell bullshit from a mile away, and yelling would only egg her on. Honesty was, in this case at least, the best policy.

“Only if you tell him. Please, Ruby. He’s… he’s my brother.” She gave him a calculating stare for what seemed like an eternity before rolling her eyes in disgust and waving a hand in dismissal.

Sam clambered into his truck, thankful for the suit he was forced to wear as an October breeze blew through the late afternoon. He dug through the glovebox and came up with an old bulky flip phone and charger, which he promptly plugged into the lighter. It slowly buzzed to life, and Sam flipped through the contacts, trying to remember what name he had hidden Dean’s burner phone under. He wasn’t sure why he’d even kept the thing - the Winchesters hadn’t needed untraceable phones since the beginnings of their careers in crime, back when they were far more… hands-on than they were now. He grinned when he found “Bonham, John,” and hit ‘Call.’

Dean answered on only the second ring. “It wasn’t me.” Sam snorted.

“I know, Dean. They’re saying you ran away with that accountant you have a crush on --” There was a strangled yelping sort of noise, followed by a heavy thud as Dean dropped the phone. Then there were thumps as the phone was knocked across the floor - presumably by Dean’s searching hand. Then there came deep muffled voices, a couple of grunts, a “Dammit Dean!” and… was that the sound of flesh smacking flesh?

“Sam. Dean should not be talking on the phone while driving if we hope to avoid capture. Or remain alive.” _Oh shit!_ It was Castiel! Sam struggled not to burst out laughing.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” was all he managed to get out.

“No, this is Castiel Novak. We have met many times.” Sam had forgotten how… literal Castiel could be.

“No, right, I… Sure thing Cas. So, if Dean didn’t kill Michael, who did?”

“We… assumed it was Lucifer’s doing?” Sam could practically hear his frown over the phone, could see that little head-tilt thing he did when he was confused. He wasn’t close to Castiel by any means, had only hung out with him and Dean twice before the schism, both times sneaking off to some greasy-ass diner for burgers. Sam had watched their interactions with curiosity and suspicion. For guys who only saw each other a few times a year, their relationship was remarkably comfortable, standing way too close to each other and having whole conversations with their eyes. He had teased his brother relentlessly about his “hot nerd boyfriend,” laughing at Dean’s blush until his brother got in a solid punch on his arm.

He heard Dean’s voice over the phone, asking Castiel something.

“Dean says he would like you to dig around for information on your end while we hide.” More loud noises from Dean. “Excuse me, ‘regroup.’ Apparently we are  _not_ hiding in the middle of nowhere.” He huffed. Sam merely grinned, before it sank in what Dean was asking.

“What? No! Dean, you’re in trouble. The FBI is after you. There’s this guy Henriksen on TV and he is out for blood. I’m coming with you!” He could hear the low rumble of Castiel relaying his message to Dean before more scrabbling noises and a gruff “Damnit Cas!”

“No. No, Sammy. You got Jessica to worry about, and that Meg bitch.” Sam flinched at the name, anger flooding his system as he thought of the Under Boss's daughter. Shortly after Lucifer started his coup against his brother, Jessica had brought the new nurse from her hospital home for dinner, and Sam had felt all the blood drain from his face. Azazel’s daughter was a certifiable psychopath. How the hell she got a job in the NICU of all places was as mysterious as it was horrifying. He was forced to sit through a whole meal with her, pretending he hadn’t seen her father kill and torture dozens of rivals - and innocents - over the years. Forced to ignore Meg’s pointed hints that should Sam prove anything but loyal to Lucifer, there were all kinds of accidents that could happen in a hospital. So Sam had stuck with the boss he despised, breaking off all contact with his brother as part of the deal. He was, at least, relieved that Dean had figured out why.

“Dean --”

“I said no, Sam! Now, are you gonna help me clear my name, or are you gonna get yourself - and your wife - killed trying to do things your way?”

“...Fine.” Sam couldn’t keep the sulk out of his voice. There was no way he could do what Dean was asking. He didn’t have the kind of access for that kind of thing. He had long since lost the complete trust of Lucifer, Azazel, and Alastair - the Advisor.

“Good. Now, we gotta go. Big Baby over here is getting hungry,” Sam heard an indignant… squawk… come out of the man in question and couldn’t repress a small grin, especially when he could hear Dean’s own smile through the line when he started up again. “You be good, Sammy. I know you think you know where we’re goin’, but you’re wrong, so don’t follow me.”

“Dean. I… I’m sorry.” That wasn’t what he had wanted to say, but he supposed it was close enough.

“I know, man. I know.” Dean’s voice had gone uncharacteristically soft. “We’ll work it out, when all of this blows over.” Abruptly, the soft voice was gone and back was the usual gruffness and levity. “Take care of yourself dude.” And with that, he was gone.

“...You too,” was all Sam managed to get out.

“So when’s the reunion?” Sam hit his head on the ceiling of the truck as he started at Ruby’s voice behind him.

“God _damn_ it, Ruby!” His heart was beating far harder than a professional bodyguard’s heart had any right to, and over a tiny blonde at that. He felt his face color in shame as he attempted to hide the burner phone. “What are you talking about?”

Ruby’s mouth twisted in wry amusement, a knowing look plastered across her smug face. “Oh come _on_ Sam. Big Bro needs your help, and you’re going to run to him like an obedient little puppy.”

“Yeah, and as soon as I leave, you’re going to call Daddy, like a predictable little --”

“Tsk tsk tsk Sam, is that really any way to talk to a lady?” Her eyes narrowed at his moose-sized snort and eye roll, but continued unabated. “Besides, my first call wouldn’t be to Daddy.” Now it was Sam’s turn to narrow his eyes. “It would be Meg.”

Sam was on her in a flash, one hand clasping the lapels of the leather jacket she wore, pushing her into the ivy-covered brick of her family’s lavish mansion, the second up by her head, pointing at her to emphasis his words. “And what makes you think I’ll let you make that call, Ruby.” It wasn’t a question.

A wolfish grin broke out across her face as she looked up at him. She didn’t appear even remotely scared. “Because I’ve already got the text written, idiot. All I have to do is hit send.” She cocked her head and looked down to where her hand was in a jacket pocket. “You’re fast, but you aren’t that fast. One push of a button and little Jessica finds herself with a needle full of air in her neck. Or maybe a slip on the stairs. Or maybe gets hit by a car. I don’t really know; Meg’s a creative girl.” Ruby may not have had the ambition of a Captain - or Knight, as Lucifer’s crew called them - like Abaddon, or the strategic cunning of her mother Lilith, but she was every bit as cold and ruthless when she wanted to be.

Sam deflated, his grip slackening as he stepped away from his boss’s daughter. Dean was right. Any attempt to help him was only going to end in Jessica getting hurt. Suddenly, he realized Ruby was watching him with that calculating stare that made his blood run cold. “But… I might be open to making a deal,” she said after a minute.

Sam attempted to mimic her calculating stare, unsure how well he succeeded. “I’m listening.”

“You take me with you on your epic quest to win your brother’s forgiveness or clear his name or cockblock him with that accountant or whatever bullshit you’re thinking of doing. You take me with you, and I don’t call Daddy _or_ Meg.”

Sam snorted again. “Let’s say I trust you, which obviously, I don’t. You really think Lucifer is going to let me just run off with his daughter? You really think I believe you won’t just call him the minute you get bored?”

“Your other option is a dead wife and life on the run. Maybe with your asshole brother, maybe not. At least this way you get a head start.”

She had a point. “Fine. Go pack a --” but Ruby was already swinging a gigantic duffle bag into the bed of Sam’s truck. Sam glowered at her smug smirk, growling a little under his breath. This was going to be a long trip.

“So, where to?” Ruby couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice, reminding Sam that she was in many ways a sheltered young woman who had been twisted by her father every bit as much as he had.

“Home,” he said. “We gotta get Jess.” He started the truck and began the trip home. Jess should be there by now, although the chances were good Meg would be too. They always watched the new episodes of Dr. Sexy together.

“That was _not_ part of the deal,” Ruby spit out as she began digging through her pocket for her phone.

“It wasn’t _not_ part of the deal either, Ruby. I’m taking you with me, fine. But I’m bringing Jess too, and I swear to God if you try to stop me, I’ll push you out of the fucking car.” Her mouth snapped shut and she began to sulk, but she didn’t pull out her phone either, so Sam counted that a win.

The twenty minute drive from the outskirts of St. Louis to Sam and Jess’s downtown loft passed in near silence. When Ruby changed the radio station, Sam could practically hear Dean’s motto, drilled into his memory by a thousand road trips over the years. _Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole._ He grinned at the memory, but let Ruby set the music. The less she had to complain about, the happier Sam would be. Besides, his nerves were fixing to get the best of him anyway, worrying about Jess. What would she say when he showed up? What would she think about Dean? What would she say when Sam told her why they needed to leave? About what he really did for a living? Would she yell? Leave him? Stay, but hate him? He had worked himself into knots by the time he and Ruby pulled up to the red brick apartment building, parking illegally as he did so. Jess had started pushing Sam to look for something out in the suburbs, a real house to raise children and own pets, though Sam was reluctant to bring children into the kind of world he lived in every day.

“Stay in the car, Ruby,” he growled at his passenger, hoping to avoid all the questions her presence would bring. Sam got out of his truck and hurried inside, taking stairs two and three at a time before hastily unlocking the door. As expected, he found his wife in front of the TV, curled up on the couch in a quilt his mother had made them years ago, a glass of red wine in her hand. Meg was similarly stationed in Sam’s own recliner, no doubt ruining the rich leather smell that reminded him of home with the smell of her cigarettes and cheap conditioner.

Jessica looked up at his red face and heavy breathing, her face scrunched up in confusion. “Honey, what’s wrong? I thought you had work? Is it Dean, did they find him? I’ve been calling you all --”

“Pack a bag, Jess. We need to go. Now.” At the look on her face, he softened his tone. Jess was patient, and kind, and incredibly loving, but she did _not_ appreciate being given orders - whether by Sam or anyone else. “Please, sweetheart. I’ll explain later.” She gave him a searching look for a moment before hurrying off to do as he asked. She might be confused, or angry, but she knew when Sam was serious.

“What’s all this Sammy? Not packing up to go help big brother Dean-O, now are we?” Meg drawled from across Sam’s living room. “You know my father won’t like that, don’t you? He always thought you had so much potential. And you know how much he hates to be wrong.”

“Fuck off, Meg. I’m taking Jess and we’re getting the hell out of here. Have fun fighting the “Angels” or whatever you “Demons” do for fun, but I am _done_.” Sam was trying not to yell, but he was not succeeding. He had been holding it in for too long, and now the dam was bursting.

“Oh Sam. Poor, sweet Sam. You think you’re invincible once you get sweet little Jessica out of here, don’t you? But that’s where you’re wrong Sam. So very wrong. Dear old Dad might just have to take a trip up to, oh where was it? Sioux Falls? You and Dean have the drunk uncle up there, don’t you? Or maybe he’ll go to Nebraska, pay your Auntie Ellen a visit. It’s been a while since Lawrence, he’s probably getting that itch again.”

Sam felt the blood drain from his face. _Bobby. And Ellen and Jo._ There were too many people to protect, too many ways to get to Sam and Dean. Wait. What was that last part? “What do you mean, _it’s been a while since Lawrence?”_ He was definitely shouting now.

Meg merely smirked up at him, supremely unconcerned with the vast size difference between them, or the rage filling Sam’s face and voice. “Oh come on, Sammy, aren’t you a Stanford man? Surely you can put two and two together, can’t you?”

Sam made a move towards her as she reached into her pocket for her phone. He wasn’t about to let her call her monster of a father, not when he’d already had to make a deal with Ruby, not when he’d already worried Jess this much. But before he could get to her, he realized that it wasn’t a phone Meg was going for, but a small gun. She opened her mouth to make one of her trademark snarky remarks, when the sound of shattering glass filled the room. Meg crumpled to the floor among the navy shards of pottery, hopefully cutting herself severely in the fall. A furious-looking Jessica stood just behind her, face flushed and breathing a little heavily.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, I have wanted to do that for so long, you have no idea.”

Sam took in the scene one more time, blinking a few times before a slightly hysterical giggle erupted from him.

“So, are we going, or what?” Jessica looked at him expectantly, picking up her rolling suitcase and moving towards the door. He had definitely found a keeper.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a lot of problems for some reason, but I hope you guys like it! Thanks so much for the feedback so far! And as always, let me know what you think in the comments.
> 
> Part of Tuesday Two's Hellatus Fanfic Challenge. If you want to learn more, find us @TuesTwoPodcast on Twitter, or on www.soundcloud.com/TuesdayTwo
> 
> In a nutshell: Be creative! Make things! Use Hellatus to challenge yourself!


	4. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas reflect on their childhoods, books, and movies as they make their way to Bobby's for a bit of rest and a chance to get a plan together.

Over the years, burgers had become the official Dean-And-Cas Hangout Food, after Dean had finally snapped at a fancy dinner party. Unable to choke down one more stuffy hors-d'oeuvre, he had grabbed Cas by the arm and practically growled “C’mon dude, we’re getting a fucking _burger_.” To his immense relief, Cas had not shrugged him off or laughed at him. Instead, he had looked at Dean with the most profound look of gratitude Dean had ever seen. “Yes, God, _please_.” So when it came to eating on the road, it was obvious what the food of choice was.

Luckily for Dean’s driving, Cas did not continue with the porn noises as he had eaten his late lunch, and _no_ , Dean most definitely did not feel a bit disappointed that he didn’t. It had just been nice to see such a prim-and-proper, buttoned-up guy enjoy himself for once. They spent the remaining hours chatting on and off, attempting to stave off their thoughts of Michael, Sam, Lucifer, and the FBI manhunt they were trying to avoid. Occasionally they’d try to strategize, to figure out who within the Family would even listen to them, let alone help them. But mostly it was trivial things they talked about - favorite books, favorite places to visit, and favorite movies.

Castiel learned that Dean had a weakness for anything by Vonnegut, while Cas preferred Dostoyevsky - in the original Russian, of course. Dean claimed that his favorite place was Vegas, but Castiel knew him well enough to tell that was a lie. After considerable prodding, Dean relented with a “You’re a stubborn son of bitch, you know that, right?” Cas practically preened as if he had been praised. He finally revealed that his favorite place was a quiet little lake in Kansas, where his father had taken him fishing a few times, before dying in that fire. He would go there on the rare occasions Michael would force him to take time off and pour one out for his old man, soaking up the sun and the silence until it was time to head into the little cabin and grill up the day’s catch. Cas smiled widely and warmly as Dean told the story, and Dean found himself getting lost in it.

He cleared his throat as he forced his eyes back onto the road. “Your turn,” was all he said, trying to shake away the feeling he got as he imagined taking his friend to see that cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Cas was quiet for a long time before he spoke. For a minute, Dean thought he might just ignore the question, as he often did when things got too personal for him. But eventually he did speak. “There… there was… our house in Illinois. It was enormous, despite there only being the four of us.” Dean tried to imagine Cas’ definition of enormous when his own house had frickin’ _wings_ , but he held his tongue. Cas almost never opened up about his past.

“I… I never felt at home there. My mother, she liked things very… in their place. Clean, pristine. ‘Immaculate’ is the word that comes to mind.” Dean had met Naomi D’Angelo-Novak only a couple of times, but had left each encounter feeling exposed and found wanting. “We had to wear gloves if we wanted to touch any of the books in our library. There was no running, no touching the artwork. We practically whispered every word we ever said.

“But the yard out back…” Dean quirked an eyebrow. He doubted it was so much a “yard” as it was an estate. Probably polo fields and private forests and fucking _hedge mazes_. “The yard was my father’s domain. Anna and I - “ he paused to clear his throat. It had been almost six years since Anna’s death and it looked as painful now as it had back then. “Anna and I, we used to explore the forests, pretending to be fairy royals or goblins or trolls. We’d hide in the maze and try to find each other.” _Score_ , was all Dean thought, impressed by his own deductive skills.

Castiel was smiling at the memories, though his expression held a note of sadness. “But my best memories,” he continued, “were with my father. He would ask me to help him with the herbs, or the vegetables, or the flowers. Of course, we had people for that, but he always enjoyed taking an active role in part of it. He’d sit me down, and teach me about… everything. The rain cycle, the seasons, crop rotation, pruning. I always loved that idea. Cutting off something bad - or even good - to make room for something great. Finding the balance between hacking away and being too lax.”

Dean was enthralled. He and Cas had talked many times over the years; he considered him a friend. But this was by far the most he’d ever heard the guy talk without stopping, without changing the topic to something more surface-level. Dean was afraid to speak, worried he’d break the spell and stop the flow of words.

“After my father walked out on us…” Cas went silent again, for even longer than before. Finally, Dean had to speak up.

“Cas, man, you don’t have to go into it. I mean, I can’t imagine… But if you want to, you know I’m here for you.” He winced at how sappy the words were, but didn’t try to take them back. The fact was, he meant them.

Castiel did not meet Dean’s eyes as he finished his story, speaking so softly Dean had to strain to hear them. “They found me two days later in the woods, with fruits and vegetables from the garden in a bag, along with _Robinson Crusoe_ , _The Swiss Family Robinson_ , and _Island of the Blue Dolphins_. I thought I could just live alone, like they did, surviving off the land.”

As Cas finished his story, Dean could almost hear his own heart breaking. Maybe it was the stress of the day, maybe it was his own set of parental issues, maybe it was something else. But when Dean reached out to put a hand on Cas’ shoulder, he didn’t inwardly grimace at the gesture. It just felt like the right thing to do. But when Cas’ whole body stiffened in response, he _did_ grimace. Inwardly _and_ outwardly. Just as he began to remove it however, Cas suddenly relaxed and sort of… leaned into the touch.

Dean savored the moment before pulling away. A barely audible and incredibly gruff “Thank you, Dean” was all he heard from Castiel for the next hour.

It was late by the time Dean pulled into Singer Salvage Yard and Auto Repair, home of his Uncle Bobby. It would have been a hell of a lot earlier, had it not been for Cas’ unbelievably small bladder. “Forgive me,” he had said - repeatedly. “I almost never consume soft drinks; I am afraid I’m not used to its effects.” Dean had merely rolled his eyes - repeatedly - before pulling into a gas station to top off Baby and buy some snacks. Each pit stop was one more place to show up on a camera, or to be recognized by a cashier, or bump into a cop. So each pit stop had led to remote detours with the occasional doubling back to see if they were being followed.

He parked the Impala somewhere out of the way and grabbed his duffel from the trunk. Cas tried to take everything at once, which led to him dropping it all several times. He began to grumble under his breath as he attempted to pick everything up, only to drop it once more. Dean stood watching for a moment, reminded of the fat mouse from Cinderella - _shut up, everyone has seen Cinderella_ \- trying to carry more corn than his little arms could hold.

“Hey uh Cas, man? You really don’t need to bring in _everything_ , dude. It’s just gonna be for one night, then we gotta keep moving.” The glare Castiel returned was positively murderous, dripping with frustration. And, Dean noted with some guilt, exhaustion. Cas had been up early, nearly killed, lost his closest relative, thought he was trapped with a murderer, and then spent nine hours in a car. _I’d be cranky too_ , he thought as he walked over to take some of the load off of his travelling companion. Castiel tried to insist that he could carry everything “without your assistance, Dean,” but Dean merely snorted, called him a big baby, and took a bag.

As they made their way to the dilapidated old porch, the old man came out to greet them. Dressed in his usual combination of faded denim and plaid, with the trucker hat to boot, Dean was transported back to his childhood. Bobby and John Winchester had been friends ever since Vietnam, where they had bonded quickly over a love of cars and their girls back home, and had each others’ backs until they both came home. They had been groomsmen in each others’ weddings, and traded off hosting Thanksgiving and Christmas each year. When Bobby had lost his wife, Karen, to a rapidly-progressing form of dementia, John and Mary had been there, with newborn Dean in tow. And when John died in the fire, it was Uncle Bobby who had done all he could to help. Dean grinned as he remembered the summers spent in South Dakota while his mother used the free time to take what community college courses she could, always hoping for a chance to get them out of their situation.

“You’re a real dumb-ass, comin’ here. Ya know that, right?” Bobby looked and sounded angry. But then, he almost always did. Dean knew him well enough to recognize the emotion as worry, rather than real anger.

“Ah, it’ll be fine. It’ll take ‘em longer than a day to even think about you or Ellen.” Bobby shifted, his eyes darting to avoid Dean’s. _Ah_ , he thought. _Man isn’t half the poker player he thinks he is._ Dean made a mental note not to bring up his surrogate aunt-figure again, assuming the two had broken up (again). “And we’ll make sure we stay away from Jody, just to be safe.” A faint blush crept up what parts of Bobby’s face weren’t covered by beard. _Yup. Not a poker player._ For a crotchety old guy who claimed to hate drama, Bobby sure found himself in the middle of an awful lot of love triangles.

Dean walked up the old steps, set down his bags, and looked his only remaining father-figure in the eyes. “You gonna ask me if I did it?”

Bobby’s eyes never left Dean’s as he said, “Didn’t think I had to.”

Before he knew it, Dean had Bobby wrapped up in a rib-crushing hug, desperately blinking back tears before pulling away. He didn’t even realize how tired, and worried, and hurt he was until he saw Bobby’s house, the closest thing he had to a home. Or maybe not until he saw Bobby himself. He cleared his throat as he released the man, backing up.

“Bobby, this is Castiel Novak. Cas, this is Bobby.” Cas had made his way up the steps, and was now shifting uncomfortably behind them, as always unsure how to deal with new people.

“You the boyfriend?” Dean began to choke on nothing, coughing as Cas answered.

“If the radio is to believed.” Was the bastard _smiling_??? Dean would never figure out the little nerd’s odd sense of humor, but he found his embarrassment fading as Bobby laughed and clapped Castiel on the back, leading them both inside.

The first thing Dean noticed about Bobby’s was how _clean_ it was. Sure, there were still books frickin’ everywhere - nobody read like Bobby Singer - but Dean didn’t see any trace of dust, no fallen piles. The curtains (which looked suspiciously new) were drawn back to reveal perfectly transparent windows. And - most obviously - there was a distinct lack of odor. Not that Bobby’s had ever smelled _bad_ exactly - it just smelled of old books and equally old man. Dean smiled to himself, imagining Jody showing up on a weekend off, sleeves rolled up and cleaning supplies in hand. Dean would always believe that Bobby and Ellen were supposed to end up together - and that they eventually would - but as long as Bobby was happy, then he could be too.

“C’mon Cas, you wanna see my room?” _Shit, that came out wrong._ “Shit, that came out wrong. I mean, let me show you my room.” _Goddamnit._ “I mean, let me show you to your room, and you can see my room from when I was a kid.” _There you go, Dean. Much better._ He hoisted Cas’ bag and led the way up the stairs, pausing periodically to point out the photos on the wall. “That’s me at the state wrestling competition when I was 16. I came in 3rd, which was total bullshit… That’s Sammy at the regional spelling bee when he was 11… That’s Thanksgiving of… ‘76 maybe? Mom and Dad and Bobby and Karen - Bobby’s wife - before the dementia hit her… There’s me and Sam and Ellen at a Jayhawks game my senior year…” and so on.

“And this here is my room!” Castiel lowered his bags to the floor and looked around wide-eyed. He seemed fascinated, determined to absorb every detail. Dean tried to ignore whatever was going on in his chest as he watched him.

“I expected…” he trailed off, looking away quickly when he met Dean’s eye.

“Baywatch posters?” Dean supplied. He chuckled as the color rose in Cas’ cheeks. “Naw man, I get it. But this… this was the only place I ever had a room to myself, you know? I wanted it to feel ‘mine,’ wanted it to feel… I dunno… classy. Peaceful? I don’t know…”

“Replenishing,” Cas supplied. “You wanted a place where you could recharge.”

“Yeah, exactly! So no posters, no mini fridge. Simple and clean, y’know?”

Castiel hummed in vague agreement as he moved around the room, admiring Dean’s wrestling trophies, flipping through his vinyls, occasionally raising an eyebrow at what he found. Dean, suddenly uncomfortable with Castiel’s typically intense scrutiny, tried to fill the quiet with more talk. “Yeah, so uhhh, I’ll be staying in here, obviously, since it’s my room and all. Sam’s room is down the hall. You’ll love it, you guys have so much in common, I’m sure he has all the… puzzles or whatever you types do for fun, and Star Wars posters to keep you company.”

The accountant tilted his head in that way he so often did, squinting at Dean as if he were a puzzle. “What makes you think I enjoy puzzles? And how would posters keep me company, especially when I have never seen the movies they depict?”

Dean knew his mouth was hanging open. He had thought that was only something that happened in books and movies, but nope, definitely happening right then. He sputtered a moment, before nearly yelling “All right, dude, we are watching Star Wars _right fucking now_!” Of course, his stomach chose that moment to remind them both that they had skipped dinner. Cas’ stomach gave an answering cry, and he looked down in embarrassment.

“Uhhhh,” Dean began. “Dinner first, _then_ Star Wars, deal?”

Making dinner with Cas was surprisingly fun. Bobby grumbled at the racket as he called Jody to cancel their plans, though he calmed down when Dean threatened to only make enough for two. Dean liked the woman, but the fact of the matter was, she was the sheriff and Dean and Cas were the FBI’s new top priority. Better just to avoid the complications altogether.

Castiel claimed to be a terrible chef, preferring take-out and pre-made meals. When Dean began setting up to make spaghetti without any sort of recipe, the stress and confusion were obvious on his face. Dean merely laughed. “Cas, man, you gotta _relax_ sometimes. Recipes… they’re just suggestions. Jumping off points. The magic happens when you let loose, try something, forge your own path, y’know?”

His friend’s face scrunched in deep thought, as if Dean had asked him to reconsider his entire life. After a moment, he removed his suit jacket and carefully draped it across the back of a chair. He then undid the top button of his shirt and pulled off his tie, which he slung over the jacket, somewhat more haphazardly. Finally, he rolled up his sleeves and stepped into Dean’s space. “How can I help?”

Dean swallowed thickly. Other than this morning - _God, was that only this morning?_ \- this was the most dressed-down he’d ever seen Cas and, God help him, he liked it. “All right, uhhh… how comfortable are you with chopping vegetables?” And just like that, they settled into an easy rhythm - Dean overseeing the meat sauce as Cas brought him incredibly precise ingredients. The guy was like a ninja with his knife, somehow, chopping and dicing with a finesse that impressed even Dean. But just to mess with him, he would grab a handful at a time, completely ignoring the perfect portions. To Dean’s consternation - or maybe relief, he wasn’t sure - Cas neither huffed nor puffed. Instead, his eyes crinkled and his posture relaxed.

Cas then took up a position right behind Dean, hovering as he attempted to figure out how exactly Dean did what he did. Occasionally, Dean would dip the wooden spoon into the sauce and taste. Once he even forgot himself enough to hold it up in front of Castiel for his opinion. The blue eyes widened in surprise and appreciation, and Dean’s face colored as Cas made one of those _noises_ again. Dean figured that meant it was almost ready, and began the noodles. Bobby appeared out of nowhere, taking out plates and silverware, and before long they were settled in front of the television.

The three men ate mostly in silence as the movie unfolded. Bobby snorted when Dean began comparing Luke and Sam’s long hair and bitch faces, and rolled his eyes when Castiel asked if that made Dean Han Solo. Dean puffed up with pride, and totally lost it when Cas referred to Bobby as Obi-Wan. Of course, then Bobby started calling Cas “Threepio,” quoting him in a truly awful prissy British accent.

When the movie ended, Cas was more excited than Dean had ever seen him. He had loved the movie completely, been on the edge of his seat practically the whole time, and eagerly requested they watch the next film.

“You idjits do what you want, I’ve got a Tempurpedic bed and first edition Elizabeth Barrett Browning calling my name.” Bobby stretched as he got up, joints popping in either protest or relief, and made his way up to his bedroom. Dean set up the next DVD, and if he ended up a hair too close to Cas as he settled back down on the couch, well that could be blamed on the surprisingly fine wine Bobby had unearthed - _since when did Bobby Singer drink anything but rotgut anyway? Freaking Jody_ \- or the sheer exhaustion of the day.

When Bobby puttered in at three a.m. to turn off the TV, he found the boys still on the sofa, Castiel’s head on Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s cheek against the top of Cas’ head. “Idjits,” he muttered, as he draped a blanket over them, definitely not grinning to himself as he did so.

Three hours later, when Dean woke up, he found himself no longer on the couch, and no longer warm and oddly content. Instead, he realized with a jerk, he was in Bobby’s basement-slash-bomb-shelter, his wrists shackled above his head and his feet barely touching the floor. Bobby groaned next to him as he also woke. Cas was nowhere to be found. A nasally voice emerges from behind them.

“Remember me, Dean?”

 _No,_ he thought, as blood drained from his face.

“We’re going to have so much fun together, you and I.”

 _NO._ Goosebumps broke out all over his body, and he realized he was no longer wearing a shirt.

“It’ll be just like old times again, won’t it…”

 _Please God, no._ Long-repressed memories suddenly broke free, and the edges of his vision began to go dark.

“...My young Padawan.”

_Alastair._ **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most shamelessly fluffy piece of writing I have ever produced, and I make absolutely no apologies for it.  
> Also, sorry about the ending, but there *is* a plot to tend to.  
> And as always, please let me know how to improve my writing - whether it's technical (I use a LOT of commas, I know...), or about the voice or tone or whatever. I'm always trying to get better and welcome feedback!
> 
> Part of the Tuesday Two Hellatus Fan Fic Challenge - using the pain and boredom of Hellatus to fuel our creative endeavors. Find us on twitter @tuestwopodcast or on soundcloud.com/tuesdaytwo to listen to past episodes.


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